


Beautiful Like This

by stitchcasual



Series: Kiss Me Like You Mean It [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: 4k words of buildup, Aftercare, Blow Jobs, D/s dynamic, Dom Fenris (Dragon Age), Fifty shades of smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sexual Tension, but like, good smut, kiss prompt, subby Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 07:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: Hawke has been to a million and one of these boring charity dinners, but he's never, ever, seen someone on the waitstaff as beautiful as the white-haired man tonight. And he never, ever could have expected what he'd do.





	Beautiful Like This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoxadrine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoxadrine/gifts).



> Prompt 9 (one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other)  
> Hope you enjoy, Cass!! I got seriously carried away with this but hoooo, I think you're gonna like it ;)

Charity dinner season in Hightown has returned again, Hawke reflects dourly as he examines the suit his mother has laid out for him. At least with her choosing what he wears, he’s guaranteed to look good. Tonight’s attire is a charcoal gray suit with brass buttons on the sleeves and cufflinks in the shape of some kind of bird (really, mother?), a pale red shirt, and some sort of dark grey checkered tie. Ugh, ties. He grimaces into the mirror as he wraps the silk over, around, and under, snugging the knot up into his neck, and frowns at his mother when she sweeps into his room to gush over how handsome he looks, running her hands down the sleeves of his jacket.

But it makes her happy, and with his father gone,  _ someone _ needs to escort her to these sorts of functions. Why it can’t be Carver, Hawke isn’t sure, but as the oldest, it’s his dubious honor to attend. He sighs, holding the door of the car open for his mother to get out when they reach the country club, pocketing the keys as she takes his elbow and he mentally prepares himself for three hours, at the least, of listening to old men complain about the Kids These Days.

His mother requests a glass of wine after they’ve secured seats at a table (the one in the farthest corner. It’s the one thing his mother concedes: if Hawke goes with her they sit in the corner and he behaves. She tried to get him to sit at another table once, and she dragged him out of there before he could completely embarrass her in retaliation). So Hawke flips through his wallet to be sure he has enough cash for the overpriced alcohol and joins the line of people waiting for drinks. He orders one for himself too, a bourbon on the rocks that he plans to nurse all night. He does have to drive them home, after all. His mother will likely have another glass or two because she can.

She’s out in the middle of the room, socializing, when he has the drinks in hand, and he reluctantly joins her, shaking hands and forcing a smile when he’s introduced to the Harimanns and their “lovely daughter.” He couldn’t care less how lovely the daughter is. Objectively, he supposes, she’s pretty enough to look at, but he just isn’t interested. His eye is caught instead by the servers dressed in black passing through the room with trays of hors d'oeuvres balanced neatly on their upturned palms. To a one they’re men, and Hawke has a curious moment wondering why that is before he’s dragged back into the conversation about the new overpass being debated in the city council and whether he thinks it will go through or not. He shrugs, offers a contrasting opinion to Mr. Harimann just to spice things up, and sneaks a glance at the server whose tray is currently within the middle of the group, being picked at by dainty fingers.

Tall but not broad, brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes. Hawke smiles and thanks him, watches him leave out of the corner of his eye. Not quite his type, but thankfully all the servers he’s seen so far are easy on the eyes. At least he won’t want for his own brand of entertainment tonight while whoever the guest speaker is drones on about Their Cause.

Not that he disapproves of his mother’s support of various charities around Kirkwall and the Free Marches. It’s noble and needed; they do good work. He just wishes the charities didn’t also have a habit of throwing exceedingly posh and boring functions like this. A guest speaker with a little pizazz wouldn’t hurt either. Someone with more than two tones to their voice, perhaps. He’d settle for only twice his age, honestly. As they find their seats, he looks at the card advertising the dinner to find the speaker tonight is Viscount Dumar. A surprise, since the viscount rarely leaves the Keep these days, governing his people without engaging with them. Speaking at a charity dinner isn’t really  _ engaging  _ with people though, Hawke supposes, not real people anyway, not the ones  _ he _ knows and prefers to be around.

The one drawback to being the table in the corner is that their food is one of the last to be served, there only being one server for every few tables. But Hawke will gladly sacrifice such a small thing to be comfortable. His back is to two walls and he can look out over the entire ballroom, see each white-draped table festooned with brilliant centerpieces of crimson and gold, watch each person at each table bending this way and that to talk to the people around them, admire the servers as they wend their ways skillfully through the chair obstacle course.

And oh, admire he does when the server for their section sweeps out of the back area, two trays in his hands. It’s the hair that first draws his eye, which had been heretofore fixed on the server from earlier, blinding white hair swaying gently with his movements.  _ I wonder how much bleach that takes _ is his first thought, followed quickly by  _ I can’t believe they let him get away with that _ and then  _ oh no, he’s hot.  _ Hawke digs a finger under the collar of his shirt, grumbling something about the heat getting turned up when his mother fixes him with a Stare.

Their table is the last in the server’s section, so Hawke has a few glorious minutes to sit back and discreetly observe the man. He’s a vision, all smooth grace and catlike reflexes, which are put on display as he snatches a glass someone knocks with their elbow before it spills on the floor all while avoiding another person pushing back their chair and keeping his tray balanced. Hawke nearly whistles but catches himself just in time. He only gets to sit in the corner because he behaves himself; if he makes a scene, his mother will probably use it to blackmail him into sitting somewhere in, ugh, the middle of the room next time.

The smile the server gives the man who nearly backed into him is polite but strained as the man snaps at him, and from where he sits, Hawke can hear him apologizing. He grinds his teeth together, unable to say anything from two tables away. The server inclines his head, closing his eyes, and the man seems to accept that, leaving the table to head down the hall toward the bathrooms. Hawke watches as the server pulls in a deep breath and continues to the next table over. When he opens his eyes, they’re rolled skyward for just an instant before refocusing on the table and distributing salads. Hawke rubs his mouth with a hand to keep from smirking. Oh, this night just got a lot better.

He murmurs a thank you when the server sets his salad down, trying his best to flash a roguish smile in the brief span of time their heads are close together. He’s not sure it works. The server pulls away, his eyes, a brilliant green, fixed elsewhere on the table, and he leaves swiftly and quietly. Hawke pretends to stretch in order to watch him go and is not disappointed. The man’s whole body is just stacked and compact and damn but does he want to run his hands  _ all over it. _ Hawke clears his throat and bends back to the table and his salad. It’s actually not bad, for leafy greens.

Before the main course, someone from the charity takes center stage, speaking just a touch too softly just a touch too far from the microphone for her words to be clearly heard. Most people lean in politely, turning their heads this way and that as if that will help. Hawke stretches backward, scooting his chair back just a few inches (after first making sure no one is behind him) and crossing his arms and legs (at the ankle like a gentleman). He lets his gaze wander around the ballroom, touching on each table before scanning the edges of the room for the waitstaff. A few of them are standing at the outskirts, listening; perhaps this charity is also near and dear to their hearts. Most of them are not to be seen, though he watches one server duck behind a curtain next to the bar and figures the rest are back there in whatever back room they have.

The food, when it comes, comes from another door farther down the wall, black-clad servers bearing trays of steaming dishes. It smells good, at least, and Hawke contents himself with that while he watches their white-haired specimen of a waiter serve the tables before his. He’s not leering, that’s rude and he knows better, but he isn’t exactly hiding his stares either. His eyes openly track the man, only looking away for a few moments here and there to be polite to his mother and the rest of their tablemates (though his mother really is carrying the conversation and not much is required of him except hmms and yes’s occasionally). The man’s eyes flick up and toward Hawke once or twice, or so Hawke would say if he were the vain sort. More likely he’s checking the other tables to see if anyone is frantically requesting something of him. Hawke had done a stint as a waiter at a dirty bar near their old house and understands some of what it must be like.

There will be two main courses, so Hawke has been led to believe, and the first one is some beef dish with a green sauce (pesto probably?) and, Hawke squints, bits of peppers and tomatoes scattered around. It looks tasty at least, though he knows little enough about food other than what he likes and doesn’t, and it’s very artfully presented, the sauce in graceful squiggles across the meat and plate. 

“Aw,” he says as the server places his mother’s plate. “I’m gonna wreck all that hard work.”

Hawke could swear he hears a soft snort come from the server as he places Hawke’s plate and grins, thanking the man again. This time they do make eye contact, and the server blinks once, slowly, before looking up and away and continuing around their table. Hawke catches him looking back at him once as he leaves the table and smiles to himself. Probably not straight. That’s a relief.

Someone else speaks for a few minutes during the first course (the schedule is exhaustingly full of speakers even before the viscount), and Hawke again scans the room, though he spends less time on the tables this time, looking instead for their server. He finds him behind the bar with the blue-eyed server from the beginning of the evening, heads bent together, whispering. He feels a little...jealous and presses his lips together, resolutely turning away from the sight, but not before both of the men look up toward him and just as quickly away. Oh what the hell. How is  _ he _ the topic of gossip here? He huffs lightly and pretends to pay attention to the last three sentences of the speech, joining in the applause at the end with a few half-hearted claps.

Water glasses are refilled at this point, and Hawke is sure to thank the gorgeous server anyway, even if he  _ is _ getting talked about behind his back. The server hums in response, surprising Hawke, and chuckles lightly as he passes behind Hawke’s chair to get to the other side of the table. Well, at least it’s not bad gossip, then? He supposes anyway, considering the server seems amused and not put off when he raises one eyebrow up and down a couple times the next time he looks over.

One more course, salmon in a cream sauce with corn and, Hawke pokes at it with his fork, some other vegetables, he supposes. But it’s edible at least and it distracts him from the first bit of the viscount’s speech. A discreet check of his watch reveals that he only has thirty minutes left until the scheduled end of the charity dinner, and he finds he’s both relieved and disappointed at that. Changing out of this suit would be amazing, he thinks as he reaches up to tug his tie a little looser. On the other hand…

He turns to look at the corner he’d last seen that server in. The man’s standing there again and staring directly at him, or so it seems to Hawke. He pulls at the tie a little more until his mother reaches back to swat him. Reluctantly, he drops his hands and folds his arms across his chest, though he doesn’t look away from the corner. There can be no mistaking it this time: the server is definitely, 100%  _ watching him, _ leaning casually against the wall. Hawke swallows heavily, suddenly embarrassed, and lowers his eyes to stare at the strange-patterned carpet. When he raises them again, he can just make out the upward curve of the server’s lips, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say the man looked  _ smug. _ He sticks his tongue out and savors the small convulsion in the server’s body as he raises a hand to his mouth.

The servers come around again after the viscount’s speech, removing plates and filling water glasses. Hawke raises two fingers when their server arrives at the table, and he nods to acknowledge Hawke as he picks up a few plates near the other end, slowly working his way over. 

“Yes?”

Hawke shivers, he can’t help it. The man’s voice is low and rough, not what he had imagined at all, but it fits him, and  _ oh, _ it does things to Hawke. He clears his throat, leaning away from him slightly so he can look up. Those wide green eyes he’d noticed earlier are a foot from his own brown ones, soft and curious.

“Could I, ah, when you’re done with what you’re doing, of course, could I get some coffee?”

Hawke is rewarded with another slow blink and a small smile.

“Of course.” 

That little frisson of energy running down his spine keeps him focused on the tablecloth, running his fingers along the edge as the server finishes collecting plates and refilling water glasses. He nearly doesn’t notice when the server returns with the carafe of coffee, neatly turning over his cup and filling it almost full.

“Cream?”

_ Nearly. _ “Uh, no, I’m...good with just sugar, thanks.” Hawke waves an awkward hand, almost spilling the mug. The server’s hand, brown skin crossed by pale lines, flashes out, catching it before it can tip over, their fingers brushing lightly as he pulls back. “Uh, thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

_ Oh god, entirely mine. _ But he just nods instead of speaking and tries to smile in a way that doesn't look like he’s valiantly attempting to not jump up and kiss the man’s head off, preferably while up against a wall. His hand shakes as he picks up his coffee cup. It’s only after a sip that he realizes he’s forgotten to put sugar in it, and he has to put it down and try again.

His mother gets up to peruse the silent auction before bidding closes, and Hawke closes his eyes for a minute, enjoying the emptiness of the table as a few others join her. He breathes deeply and steadily drinks his coffee, not sure yet whether it will be a good idea or a bad idea but willing to take the risk. It’s only the fact that he’s nearly emptied the cup that keeps him from spilling any on himself when the server sneaks back over.

“Refill?”

One hand on his heart, beating wildly in his chest, the other gripping his mug tightly, Hawke opens his eyes wide. The server looks amused then concerned, and he frowns slightly.

“I apologize. I did not mean to startle you.”

Hawke takes a few steadying breaths and shakes his head. “No, you’re fine. I should pay more attention!” He holds his mug out with a smile, and the server pours more coffee. “Thanks. It’s actually not too bad.”

Green eyes crinkle and the man says, “I’ll be sure to tell the chef.”

Hawke laughs, the server smiles, and they share a moment, looking at each other, before a call rises from the next table over and the server turns, his smile freezing into a rictus. Hawke sips at his coffee, watching the exchange (turns out other people wanted coffee before dessert too), somewhat saddened when the server doesn’t return to his table and instead wanders off to the back. He wonders if the staff gets to eat during these events, or if they have to take their meals before or after.

He picks up the bottom of his tie and wiggles it to and fro while he waits for dessert to be served and his mother to return. The smirk on the lips of the server when he arrives with their plates of cheesecake tells him he saw that, and Hawke’s cheeks flush. He waits the rest of the evening, mulling over possibilities in his mind. The server seems...interested, and he’d hate to leave and regret not having taken the chance to pull that taut body close to his, kiss that damned sexy mouth.

So when the dessert plates are cleared, the silent auction winners have been announced, and people are starting to trickle out, he pulls out his phone, flipping through a couple apps and typing some nonsense to his sister (who will, eventually, ask what he meant by that, but probably not until tomorrow because she goes to bed early). He sets a hand on his mother’s shoulder as she stands, chatting to someone she knows, and waits for a break in the conversation.

“Mother, the guys are getting together a card game and want to know if I’m joining. I told them I was taking you home, so maybe later.” He’d chosen his words well, because his mother places a hand on his cheek and pats it.

“No, dear, you should go be with your friends after having to spend so long cooped up with us old folks.

“Your mother can ride home with us,” the couple she’d been talking to offers, and Hawke thanks them profusely for taking care of his mother and turns as if to leave. He catches the eye of the server as he gets to the door and raises one eyebrow. The man nods.  _ Yes. _ A thrill runs through Hawke and he grins stupidly at the server, who rolls his eyes and smiles. But then Hawke realizes that he doesn’t know where to go or what to do. The waitstaff is clearing the tables, deftly removing plates and glasses from around people who are still standing in groups, making their way slowly out. Obviously the server will be working for another little while at least, but what about him?

The brown-haired, blue-eyed server he’d ogled before approaches, lays a gentle hand on Hawke’s bicep, and says, his words a lilting brogue, “Wait in the restroom. I’ll let ye know when the coast is clear.”

So wait in the restroom Hawke does, tapping his toes against the tile and scrolling through various social media feeds to stave off the boredom and anxiety (mostly anxiety) from being trapped in a restroom with no way of knowing how much longer it will be. He’s nearly to the point of abandoning the whole venture when the door opens and the wingserver calls out to him.

“Alright, ye can come out now.”

Hawke dashes to his feet, exiting the stall he’d secreted himself away in, his haste slowing as he nears the door. The other server smiles at him and jerks his head back toward the ballroom.

“Go on.”

He rubs his palms on the thighs of his fancy suit pants and glances behind him to see if the other server is coming too. He’s not, halfway down the hall the other way, headed home, Hawke assumes. His breaths speed up as he reaches the still-open double doors that lead to the ballroom, and he licks his lips. Despite his tendency to (attempt to) flirt with many cute men who cross his path, Hawke has never done something quite like this, and he peers around the door frame.

The server stands behind the bar, shifting bottles of alcohol so all their labels face forward. Hawke spies on him for a minute, watching him go down the whole row then start again at the beginning, touching each bottle and wiggling it slightly, even though they’re already all in alignment. It makes Hawke smile and feel not quite so anxious as before (though he’s still a bundle of nerves) as he steps through the door. Hands freeze and green eyes immediately flick over to him, the set of the man’s body noticeably relaxing when he sees who it is. His eyes drag down Hawke’s body, taking in the full view of him in his suit, lips curling upward.

Hawke’s lips part as he struggles to keep breathing normally, one hand again pulling at the tie around his neck. The server shakes his head, tossing white hair out of his eyes, and steps out from behind the bar, his movements sure as he approaches Hawke, who seems to have frozen on the spot. All he can do is watch the man approaching him, take in the way his black uniform shifts on his body as he moves and the patches of light skin among the brown at his chin and along his hands, the only flesh visible to him. Deft hands begin unknotting his tie, and he helpfully tilts his chin up, allowing this perfect stranger access to his throat.

“I don’t even know your name,” Hawke murmurs, staring at the ceiling in wonder. How did he get here? Warm fingers press close against his neck, popping the top button of his shirt, then grasp his chin lightly, guiding his face back down to the server’s.

“My name is Fenris,” he says, looping the tie over one hand a few times.

“Garrett.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Fenris smiles.

Hawke somehow scrapes enough brain cells together to say, “hopefully,” and wink. Fenris snorts and chuckles softly, grabbing one of Hawke’s hands in his and tugging him toward the curtained off back area.

“Follow me,” he says, as if Hawke weren’t already willing to do just that without being pulled or asked. He does his best not to trip on the server, though, who is what looks like about a foot shorter than him, as they brush past the curtain. As soon as it swishes shut behind them, Fenris spins Hawke with the hand he’d held and backs him up against a wall, pinning him in place. The hand wrapped in Hawke’s tie begins the process of unbuttoning the rest of Hawke’s shirt.

“What are you looking for?” Fenris asks, his voice husky. His fingers brush along Hawke’s torso as he continues unbuttoning the shirt, and Hawke swallows, hoping very much that he doesn’t look or sound too much like an idiot.

“Uh, I don’t know? I wasn’t honestly expecting to get this far?” He squeaks, just a little, when Fenris pulls the front of his shirt from his pants, spreading the fabric aside to put his chest on full display. “I thought, maybe, I could kiss you? And we could go from there?”

Fenris trails the tip of the silk tie up Hawke’s body and looks thoughtful for a moment as Hawke twitches at the sensation. “Acceptable,” he says finally, grabbing one side of Hawke’s shirt and pulling him down.

Their lips meet, soft and chaste, but Hawke feels...electrified. As though every atom in his body has been set alight. His eyes flutter, nearly closing before Fenris breaks away. He whines at the loss of contact, wanting more,  _ needing _ more. With great effort, he focuses his eyes on Fenris, scant inches from him, hand still wrapped in his shirt and tie. The man’s green eyes are wide, his lips parted, breaths fast and shallow. They both lick their lips and that breaks the moment. They crash back together and there’s nothing soft or chaste about the kiss this time. It’s open mouthed and hungry, it’s biting teeth and diving tongues. It’s the best thing Hawke has experienced in his life. 

He tries moving forward, wanting to be closer to Fenris, to press their bodies together until there isn’t a space between them. But Fenris’s hand in his shirt and on his arm keep him exactly where he is. Hawke whimpers, a sound that turns swiftly into a groan as Fenris steps into him, fitting one leg between his and  _ leaning, _ until they are flush together and,  _ oh Maker, _ Fenris grinds slowly against him.

Hawke’s mind whites out, and there’s no more room for anything but Fenris, Fenris pinning him, driving him absolutely mad with that slow, teasing pace of his thigh, so completely at odds with the give-no-quarter way he’s kissing him. It’s all Hawke can do to just kiss him back and hold on, his hands scraping at the wall for purchase because if Fenris wasn’t holding him up, his knees would have buckled by now. The sleeves of his suit jacket bunch on his arms, trying to fall off his shoulders but trapped by the wall just as he is. Fenris nips at his lips then pulls away just far enough that Hawke can’t lean his head forward to reach him.

“If I let go,” he rumbles, and  _ oh _ but that voice is  _ really _ working for Hawke right now, “will you stay where you are?”

“Do—do you want me to?” He hasn’t ever had a partner like this before, and he feels a little thrown for a loop. 

“I do.” The weight of Fenris pressing on him lifts as he steps back, his fingers running along the edge of Hawke’s shirt as if reluctant to give it up. “You are…” he inhales, eyes roaming across Hawke’s body, “beautiful like this.”

Hawke can feel the flush rising in his cheeks and drops his eyes. “Then I’ll stay,” he breathes, delighted when Fenris rewards him by swooping up to kiss him again, hard.

“Close your eyes,” Fenris says, and Hawke can hear a note of command under the words as he slowly, deliberately, unwraps Hawke’s tie from around his hand. 

Hawke has a moment of inner conflict, not wanting to lose sight of the gorgeous server while also desperately wanting to do what will make him happy. He makes his decision, and when Fenris has the tie fully unwrapped and hanging loosely from both hands, he closes his eyes. The pleased hum from Fenris is reward enough, the trailers of heat that weave down to his groin just a side benefit. 

“Move your head away from the wall.” 

Hawke obeys before he can even take a moment to think about it. He jerks in surprise when he feels the silk contact his face, but Fenris makes soothing sounds, kissing Hawke’s temple as he wraps the tie around his head, and Hawke relaxes into the circle of Fenris’s arms, falling forward as Fenris steps back.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Fenris growls, and Hawke snaps back against the wall, knocking his head in the process. He hisses, but doesn’t raise a hand to rub at it, no matter how much he wants to. He’s not sure where Fenris is anymore, and it sends ripples of surprised desire through him when Fenris speaks into his ear.

“Thank you.” A hand threads through his hair, rubbing at his head for a moment before gently setting it back against the wall. “I would prefer to pleasure you rather than punish you.”

_ Oh fuck. _ “Same,” Hawke pants, and he can hear Fenris’s laugh move away from his ear and around him in a quarter circle until, he assumes, they’re face to face again. He grins through his daze.

“Such a mouth on you. I wonder if we can’t put it to better use.” Hawke licks his lips and a helpless little moan escapes him as he feels warm fingers on his cheek. He nearly drops to his knees but Fenris is kissing him again before he can move, pressing close as before. But this time, oh this time, Fenris’s bare chest meets his, startling warmth and solid muscle, and the static buzzing in Hawke’s head hits an all-time high. He doesn’t know what kind of sounds he makes, but Fenris seems to like them, his hums vibrating through Hawke’s neck as he nips and sucks his way to Hawke’s collarbone. In the space below his clavicle, Fenris pauses, scraping his teeth over one small patch of skin until Hawke cries out, everything in him straining to stay back against the wall while simultaneously trying hopelessly to arch out.

“Mm, beautiful,” Fenris praises as he backs off. Hawke lifts his chin, proud, even as he gasps for air. “Now, on your knees. Keep your shoulders, hands, and head against the wall.”

Hawke sinks down immediately, his legs splaying and tightening the fabric over his crotch uncomfortably. He’s leaning back against the wall, his body in a sort of half-bridge position, jacket and shirt hanging off his torso in what one tiny part of his brain is certain must look ridiculous and lewd. But Fenris makes that throaty hum again and murmurs, “perfect,” and the thrill that follows that word wipes anything else from his mind.

He hadn’t been expecting this when he first made eyes at the server, but as Fenris straddles Hawke’s chest, bumping his cock against his lips, Hawke really has no complaints at all about how his evening is turning out. He opens his mouth, licking eagerly at the leaking tip, savoring the moan that he pulls from the man above him. Fenris slowly thrusts into Hawke’s mouth, taking his time, sliding in inch by inch. Hawke’s nose hits cloth, and he groans helplessly around Fenris’s cock at the revelation that Fenris hadn’t even taken off his pants before mounting him.  _ Fuck, Maker, fuck FUCK. _

“Garrett…” At the sound of his name from Fenris’s lips, sounding choked, Hawke groans again, hollowing his cheeks to suck harder, flicking his tongue relentlessly at the soft, wrinkled patch just below the head of Fenris’s cock.

“Garrett, I’m going to—” Hawke makes what he hopes is an encouraging noise, not letting up his ministrations, hoping Fenris understands that he doesn’t mind, that he  _ wants _ him to come down his throat, can’t think of anything he’d like more in this moment than to know that he brought Fenris to that height. He feels Fenris tense above him, feels one hand on the side of his head, gripping tight in his hair. Then Fenris jerks, and  _ oh _ Hawke wishes he could see the ecstasy on his face as he comes with a cry, hips stuttering, the fabric of his pants pushed tight against Hawke’s nose. He milks Fenris through his orgasm, licking up his softening shaft until, with a shudder, Fenris pulls away.

A  _ thump _ sounds above him, and Hawke can hear Fenris’s gasping breaths. The hand in his hair relaxes, letting go its death grip, and begins scratching lightly at his scalp. Hawke hums and lifts his head into the sensation while keeping it against the wall. Fenris chuckles.   
  
“Very good, Garrett.” Hawke smiles, and Fenris brushes the thumb of his other hand across Hawke’s eyes underneath the silk tie. “You have been so…incredible. I am pleased.”

Hawke whines at those words, wanting very much to continue to please Fenris if he can. He hasn’t ever felt like this before, hasn’t ever wanted someone else’s happiness like this before. It’s a strange though not unwelcome feeling, but he doesn’t know where things go from here. At this point, he’d forego his own release if he knew Fenris wanted that and be happy about it (and isn’t that just something he’s never really considered before); he just needs to know. 

It’s a change in the light behind his blindfold more than anything else that tells him Fenris has moved back and no longer stands above him. He doesn’t hear anything else, doesn’t feel anything else, and can’t see, can’t know for sure if Fenris is still there or if he’s taken his pleasure and gone. Something still glues him to the wall, but his eyes dart frantically behind the tie and his breaths come fast and shallow. He feels close to panicking, to hyperventilating, and whimpers.

Fenris’s hands are on his face then, both of them cupping his cheeks. “I apologize,” Fenris murmurs, kissing him lightly as his thumbs stroke against his skin. “I did not mean to scare you. I simply had to take a moment to admire you. Forgive me.”

Hawke nearly cries. Tears pool in his eyes but the silk catches them before they fall down to Fenris’s fingers, still brushing tenderly across his face. Fenris stays there until Hawke’s breathing evens back out, kissing his lips, his forehead, his eyes. He runs his knuckles from Hawke’s temple down his jaw then places two fingers gently underneath his chin.

“Garrett, I need you to answer me honestly: do you want to continue? You can just move your head if you don’t feel you can speak.”

Hawke hesitates, forcing his brain through some mental gymnastics to grasp what Fenris is offering him. He feels...content, with Fenris’s hands still brushing soothingly over his face, the terror of a few minutes ago faded in his mind. It would be nice, he thinks, to stay like this, allow himself to soften and just ride the pleasant buzz coursing through his limbs until he has to go home. But part of him, an increasingly large part, is curious to see just what will happen next. He wets his lips, parting them to speak, but nothing comes out. He swallows, tries again, and finally jerks his head upward a couple times, letting it fall back onto Fenris’s fingers.

That  _ hum _ from Fenris as the man grips Hawke’s chin carefully with his thumb, and Hawke could swear his insides light up like a damn Christmas tree. His cock twitches where it’s confined by tight fabric, and he gasps. Fenris taps his fingers against the underside of Hawke’s chin.

“I want you to stand up and spread your legs. Keep your hands on the wall.”

Hawke struggles, getting his feet under him a harder task than it sounds, but he manages to make it upright and crabwalks his feet out to the sides a few inches.

“Farther.”

He obeys, his body sinking down against the wall as his feet move outward, stopping only when a hand presses against his crotch, scraping at his balls through the fabric.

“Good,” Fenris croons, his other hand working at Hawke’s belt buckle. “Stay where you are. Do not thrust into me. Let me take care of you.” He pops the button on Hawke’s pants and draws the zipper down, the belt clinking softly to the side as Fenris frees Hawke’s cock from his underwear and pulls it out. He makes a soft, appreciative sound, and Hawke moans when he drags his fingertips lightly up and down his shaft. Fenris teases him mercilessly with those featherlight touches while continuing to knead his pants onto his balls, and Hawke clenches his hands into fists against the wall as he holds himself still.

He yelps, startled, when Fenris darts in to suck a mark high onto his ribs, barely restraining the reflexive twitch of his body. Fenris chuckles against him, still with the maddening, barely-there touches, and Hawke can feel him smile on his chest as he redoubles his efforts on the mark. A high-pitched keening sound escapes with Hawke’s exhales, and he knows he’s getting close, can feel the tightness deep within him that heralds his oncoming release. 

Fenris licks across the mark he made, and Hawke jerks his head away from the wall in a desperate attempt to keep his hips immobile. 

“Mm, look at you,” Fenris says, his voice hoarse. “So good. So willing, so eager.” He drags a fingertip up the outside of Hawke’s shaft, circling around the mushroom-shaped head. “So close.”

Hawke cries out as Fenris pulls his hands away after giving his balls a final squeeze. He doesn’t need much to come now, the coil in his belly wound so tightly, but he needs  _ something. _ He can hear Fenris rummaging around somewhere off to the right a little and pants as he leans against the wall, waiting,  _ wanting. _ He can’t tell what Fenris is doing, but at least he knows he’s there, and that keeps him from panicking again. 

The sound Fenris makes when he trails a hand down Hawke’s chest is thoughtful and amused in equal measures as Hawke hisses in surprise at the touch. “I wonder…”

What he wonders he doesn’t elaborate on, and the chances of Hawke hearing him over the sudden hammering of his heart as Fenris presses a finger to the slit of his cock are pretty infinitesimal anyway. Hawke’s every breath is a moan now, so close to the edge but Fenris hasn’t sent him tripping over it yet. Something rests against the base of his dick, but he has no time to be curious about it as Fenris drags two fingers up the front and back of his cock, one flat, one just barely scraping with a fingernail, and says, “come for me.”

He does, screaming his release and squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he can, the force of his orgasm shocking and draining him. Fenris flattens both fingers, stroking lightly up Hawke’s dick until Hawke whimpers and tries to pull away, the sensation overwhelming. Then he brushes something lightly over the tip, dropping it onto the floor with a soft  _ whump, _ before he tucks Hawke back into his pants and runs his hands slowly up and down Hawke’s arms.

“You did so well,” he says, his hands running over Hawke’s, coaxing them out of their fisted state. “So well. Sit with me.” He accepts the bulk of Hawke’s weight as Hawke leans away from the wall and into Fenris, his legs buckling at the knees, and gently lowers both of them to the floor. Fenris wraps his arms around Hawke, who half-curls into the space he leaves between his legs, and pets his hair, humming a nonsense melody as Hawke begins the process of coming back down into himself.

It’s like putting together a fuzzy jigsaw puzzle, matching up pieces until something works, and the more pieces he connects, the sharper the puzzle appears, the more clarity he has. For a little while, he’s really only aware that his head is resting on something soft and warm. He nuzzles into it and realizes there’s some hardness beneath the soft. Though he still can’t see, the tie still around his eyes, he can tell now that it’s Fenris’s chest and hums happily as he kisses it. Fenris chuckles, and Hawke can feel the vibrations through his cheek.

“Would you like me to take this off?” Fenris asks, his voice kind, and he runs his hand across the tie.

Hawke nods, and Fenris moves so he can better access the knot, undoing it with swift fingers. He doesn’t let it fall off immediately, cautioning, “the lights will seem very bright. It will take your eyes a few minutes to adjust.” Hawke nods again, and Fenris lets the silk slide. It pools on the floor as Hawke hides his face against Fenris’s chest, struggling with his arms as the suit jacket constricts his movements. Fenris helps him shrug it off then lays it over Hawke’s shoulder as a blanket, smoothing the fabric down his arm. They spend a few quiet moments there, comfortably wrapped around each other, until Hawke raises his head to blink owlishly at the light. 

He half sits up, balancing himself with one hand on Fenris’s thigh, and looks back at him. Fenris’s lips are curved upward in a very small smile, his eyes soft and shining.

“How are you feeling?” 

Hawke blinks some more, raising his eyebrows, opening his mouth only to close it again and shake his head. He lets out a breathy laugh and looks down at the tie on the floor, picking it up and running it through his fingers.

“Really, uh, really good. That was…” He shakes his head again. “Amazing.”

“It was better than anything I could have dreamed,” Fenris says, almost too soft to hear. “You are...so remarkably responsive, I almost can’t believe it.”

Hawke flushes, dropping his eyes further before looking sharply up at Fenris, a frown creasing his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows. “This isn’t just… Am I going to see you again?”

Fenris licks his lips and draws his fingers lightly over Hawke’s cheek. “I would very much like to see more of you.”

“Oh good,” Hawke breathes. He kisses Fenris and they melt into each other a little before Fenris pulls away regretfully.

“I should, uh, probably close up here, but I can call you later?”

Hawke happily gives Fenris his number and clambers to his feet with Fenris’s assistance. He smooths his pants, tucks his shirt back in after buttoning it, and throws the jacket over his shoulder. The tie he tucks in his pocket, running a hand over it fondly. Fenris buttons his own shirt back up and shoves a towel on the floor into a bag sitting on a nearby table. Turns out closing up is as simple as turning the key in the lock, all the work having been done while Hawke was hiding out in the bathroom, and Fenris walks Hawke to his car, checking in again when they get there to make sure Hawke is OK to drive. Then he kisses Hawke breathless against the driver’s side door and raises a hand in farewell as Hawke drives out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt me!](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/159868019924/fictional-kiss-prompts)


End file.
